For a Story
by Lif61
Summary: Chuck visits Dean to fulfill his pervy obsession as described by Lilith and to get some things straight. What he writes is and Dean needs to get put back on the shelf.


**A/N: This was inspired by Lilith's quote, "I had to listen to his whole 'writing philosophy,' and his very weird, very pervy obsession with you," from 15x05 "Proverbs 17:3." Do I ship this? Don't think so. Did this happen anyway? Oh yeah. Did my best to not make it about the smut and to make it about God and his story, and what this means for Dean's life and his agency, and his current depression. It got really meta. It was odd. So go wild, cringe, enjoy.**

**WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, and rape/non-con.**

* * *

Dean definitely wasn't at his sharpest when he woke up that morning. He'd gone to bed after one too many drinks, had fallen asleep after knocking his headphones off somewhere in his room, and the tinny music was still coming through and hurting his head if he listened hard enough, and he was covered in a cold sweat. Not to mention it felt like the inside of his head was stuffed with cotton.

Almost no point in heaving himself up out of bed.

Did Chuck want him to get out of bed?

Did Chuck want him to stay in bed?

Had Chuck picked this room out for him?

Had he picked the music he listened to? What about the corny, but cozy, pajamas he was now wearing?

Dean had liked the pajama bottoms with the tacos on them, the socks with the puns about pizza, and his Star Wars shirt wasn't too bad either.

Or so he'd thought.

But maybe Chuck had picked those out for him. Sure, he'd put choices in front of Dean. Game of Thrones instead of Star Wars in the mall that day, ice cream puns instead of pizza. Hell, even the room next door instead of the one he was now in.

But there he was, lying in that room, in that bed, wearing those pajamas, feeling that particular brand of shit.

Sure, he'd had Scotch last night, when he could've chosen Whiskey. But those were the options. Why?

Fucking Chuck.

The douche could've invented some stupid glowing purple drink for all he cared. He would've shoved it in front of Dean, and Dean would've had to drink it, no questions asked.

Wouldn't have had any questions. Would've been normal, the order of things.

God's will.

God's fucking will. That was a sentence Dean could choke on.

And what about all the other things he'd choken on? His own blood, the hands that had tried strangling the life out of him? What about all of those?

Huh, God's plan. God's fucking plan.

So Dean didn't feel like getting out of bed.

God could fuck off, or fuck him for all he cared.

"You know I can hear your thoughts."

Dean jumped, grabbing a pillow, and turned to face the end of his bed. Eyes wide, heart beating out of his chest, hair standing on end in goosebumps, he saw Chuck just a foot from the edge of his bed, close enough to reach out and touch his mattress, or even his toes.

Dean tried to reach for the gun he kept underneath his pillow, scrambling for it, knocking the pillow that wasn't clutched in one arm off the bed, wildly tangling the sheets. He almost growled with his sheer frustration to find it. Fear was bubbling up in his throat. Oh god, was he going to be sick?

There was a rather numbing, empty click, a firing pin disengaged from a gun. Metallic clinks followed, bullets dropping out onto the floor. Dean turned, watching as Chuck took his gun apart, making it unusable. He tossed it aside, and Dean's shoulders raised to his ears with each loud clatter against stone and brick.

Chuck winced, almost like he was sorry.

"Yeah, knew about that."

Dean closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart, the blood rushing through his ears.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Aren't you injured, depowered? Or, I don't know, figuring out the best way to fuck us? Sam says—"

Chuck waved his hand, going to sit on Dean's couch, green leather creaking beneath him. "Forget what Sam says." He made himself cozy, crossing one leg over the other.

"So you're not gonna have one of us kill the other?"

"Early stages, Dean. Early stages. But I'm not here about your brother."

"Then why are you here, dickbag?"

"I'm here about you."

"Great, come to tell me I'm not wearing enough leather for you or something? Want me to start self-harming? 'Cause, buddy, I can do that last part. Been building up for years."

"No, no. Don't be ridiculous. Nothing so stupid and obvious like that."

"Then what? Here for some merchandise, your very own souvenir? Or did you want some alone time with your very own personal sex doll?"

Chuck scrunched up his face, pulling his head back in disgust. "Don't call yourself that."

"I'm sorry, do you not remember all the sex I've had? That was you, right? 'Cause Lilith told me you've got some sick thing going on in your brain."

Chuck suddenly stood, making Dean feel very small, and he fell back on his bed. God was now pointing a finger at him, and it was as if darkness and shadows had raised around him while his eyes glowed, sharp, and incisive.

"What I write is law. I am. Nothing is sick unless I make it so. No judgement shall fall upon me, but I have plenty for you."

"B-b-but," Dean stuttered out, "you made me."

"I did," the entity growled. "Meaning you do what I say. I want you all wrapped up like a present?" He snapped his fingers, the air reverberating with the force of it, yet nothing happened. Still, Dean flinched. "I can make it happen. I want you to shut up? Bam! You shut up. For good. No more tongue to speak of. I want you to be like you used to be, daddy's good little soldier? Then that's what you are! None of this depressed, grieving father who thinks he knows what's best for the world. You didn't save the world, Dean. I just let you. So you want to know why I'm here? I'm here to make sure you fit neatly back on the fucking shelf I put you on."

"Meaning…" Dean forced out, lungs attempting to suck in air, but diaphragm barely daring to work, all of him limp and terrified.

"Meaning that little conversation you had with Lilith? That was the easy part. She was right, I am obsessed with you." He came around to the side of the bed, hand caressing Dean's face. "How could I not be when I made you so beautiful?"

God blurred in Dean's vision.

"Wh-wha… What do you want?"

"Insurance."

"Huh?"

Chuck grabbed his legs, pulling him down, dragging Dean from his semi-seated position to lying down, and Dean started trying to scramble up, but the entity above him was too powerful.

"That you'll die when the time is right. Or that you'll kill your brother."

"I'm not—"

Dean was cut off, a commanding, very human-feeling hand placed over his mouth, even covering part of his nose. The skin around his nostrils warmed as the air he breathed out wafted back up into his face.

"This isn't a threat," Chuck explained. "This is what is."

Dean rolled his eyes up, not looking at Chuck, not wanting to look at anything, or even be where he was. But that was the ceiling in his room, and he was on his bed, God over him, hands on him.

He wouldn't…

No, no…

A nervous laugh bubbled up in Dean, but it came out in a muffled spurt, spit getting on Chuck's hand. He didn't seem to mind. It just continued to warm from the air leaving him, and the other hand was viciously yanking his socks off.

The fuck?

Oh god…

Dean started kicking, and kicking, trying to get his hand away, trying to… trying to get himself away. He tried working his head up, chin ramming into his palm. If he could get his teeth around his pointer finger, bite down…

Chuck, no, God, squeezed his jaw so fiercely the pain processed as white light in his eyes, pressure driving all the way up into his skull, and his head lay back.

With his feet bare now, that hand was on his legs again. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

This wasn't…

No, no…

Fuck you! Dean thought, hoping it would get to God, and it surely did because he had a wide grin.

Dean rolled, and then kicked out at him, catching his hip, and he collapsed onto him. God, he was heavy. Why was he so heavy? Was it all that celestial power packed into a small body? Was it muscles hiding beneath those clothes? Fuck, he was warm through his clothes too, almost hot. That was the last thing Dean needed to know.

His arm wrapped around him, and Chuck's hand ran down, clutching at the top of his neck. Dean grabbed at him, arms going back, trying to get him to let go. He kicked and squirmed, delivered more blows, but it did nothing.

Where did Sam shoot him? he though desperately. Where did Sam shoot him?

Left shoulder?

Dean rammed his own left shoulder back, and Chuck fell back, grip weakening.

Yes, that was the one!

Dean shuffled up and rammed his elbow down into it. His head ached fiercely, vision blurring, but he might've heard a sharp cry come from somewhere else in the bunker.

Oh god, Sam was still here. He couldn't have this happen to him where Sam might hear, where Sam might walk in, where Sam could get hurt.

Chuck rolled onto his back, clutching at his left shoulder. Brown blood was seeping through the fabric, and he screamed through his teeth.

Dean got up from the bed, making a run for it. He stumbled on the discarded bullets, almost rammed headfirst into the doorknob, but then was opening the door. Chuck was soon up and after him, grabbing his hips, fingers clutching at clothing, twisting in, pulling, even grasping at his bathrobe.

Should he cry out for Sam? Should he get help?

Too late.

The door was yanked wide open, Dean nearly collapsed, banged into the doorway, and hurried footsteps were shuffling down the hallway.

"Dean!" Sam cried. "Dean, I think… I think something's happening to Chuck!"

Dean slammed his head back, getting Chuck right in the nose, but still he held tight.

"No kidding," Dean growled.

"What the—"

But then soon Sam was jumping into action, screaming, and trying to pry Chuck off of Dean.

Black. Air rushed up at Dean.

He hit hard ground, the breath getting knocked out of him. Nothing.

He blinked open teary eyes.

Sam was gone.

Or Dean was gone.

Chuck was standing by him now.

"Where the hell am I?!" Dean demanded, rolling onto his back, trying to sit up.

Bitter wind blew around him, biting at exposed skin, carving through cloth, and there was gray stone everywhere he looked. Down below him were rivers carving through mountains, and up above, peaks rose. An eagle screamed, and Dean shivered, pulling his legs close together.

A mountaintop. A god damn mountaintop.

"The Rockies, somewhere. People used to come to mountaintops to be closer to me, speak to God and all that, so I found it fitting."

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded, standing, brushing himself off, righting his clothes. His pajama bottoms had slipped down beneath his left hip, his boxers too, showing pale, freckled skin. Fuck, it was cold here.

"Still at the bunker. Probably scared, confused, shoulder hurting. For Christ's sake, did you have to hit me that hard?"

Dean crossed his arms, glaring, trying to hold his ground, hoping this reprieve would last long.

"You attacked me, remember?"

"Or you could take it like a man."

"Take what? God's dick? No thanks. Rather have—"

"Castiel's dick up there?"

"Excuse me?"

"Uh huh," Chuck continued, circling Dean now.

Dean's cheeks were flushing, even as he was sure the rest of him was turning blue.

"Know all about that. Some angels would call it bestiality. A human, an angel. Two different species. But you know, I love all that angsty, semi-abusive romance. And my gorgeous son? He's perfect for you, isn't he? Scared the shit out of you at first. You hate him at times, or you did. Sometimes you want to fuck him senseless, or the other way around. You got it bad for each other. Come on, you think you had those feelings all on your own? Poor little Dean, raised to be John Winchester's perfect soldier. Had to act like dad, look like dad, listen to dad's music, be a perfect man, and oh no, definitely couldn't go telling daddy he liked to imagine getting all hot and sweaty with boys."

"Cut it out."

"But I made you like boys. Well, now, men. I mean, who wouldn't, right? All big, and hard in the perfect places, and that nice scratch of stubble against bare skin. And I know you stay up thinking about Castiel's thighs. I made those thighs. Maybe just for you."

"This isn't about that."

"Oh, so you want to get back to the other thing?"

"No!" Dean snapped.

"Good, so let's talk about all your internalized homophobia, shall we? Where do you think you got that from? Not just daddy, huh? Who made your dad the neglectful, drunk type? Who made him think he was actually being a good dad all those nights he left you alone with no money? Or all those times he had his friends over and they tore into your skin with metal hangers or burnt you with cigarette butts? All me."

Dean felt a scream rise out of his chest, and didn't even hear it come out of his mouth, but next thing he knew he was lunging at Chuck, driving him right to the edge of a cliff. It didn't even matter that the bottoms of his feet were getting grazed and cut into by the rock. Chuck just grabbed him, arms wrapping tight around his body, so tight he could feel the coiled strength in his biceps, the hardness there, the power.

This was really making Dean wish he'd had time to pee before all this had happened. Hopefully his bladder could control itself for the rest of whatever the hell this was.

"So you get off to this stuff?!" Dean screamed in his face, a tear trailing down his cheek. His eyes felt puffy, were surely red. "Were you up there all this time jerking off?"

"Too human," he explained, pulling Dean away from the cliff, his feet stinging as he went with the movement. Chuck didn't let go of him.

He held him, their breaths mixing together, and it curled his stomach. Fuck, why did his touch have to be so warm out here?

"Then what's your version of it, huh?"

"Maybe this is my version of it. But you know, I did like the human gig."

Chuck suddenly grabbed Dean's chin, pain lancing through his neck, and up into the base of his skull. He yanked his head back, and then his lips were gingerly touching his. Dean cringed as a hot tongue came out to lap at his lips. Chuck was even breathing heavy.

Next thing Dean knew his mouth was opening, and he didn't know why, couldn't remember making the decision. The extra warmth pouring into him felt nice, bringing life into his lips, his cheeks. He hummed into it, hips instinctively pressing up into Chuck.

Wait, Chuck?

When did…?

A hand ran through his hair. It wasn't exactly a nice hand. Just a hand, but it would do. And mm, the hardness rubbing up against his pelvis twined heat through his body, and Dean couldn't help moaning.

"There we go. Not so bad."

Dean pulled back once the other lips had pulled away, and he stared into Chuck's face, confused.

The air seemed to blur around him, shift, and Dean couldn't breathe. He started collapsing, falling to his knees, and Chuck caught him, lowering him to the rock. It was cold against his ass, even clothed, and he shifted with discomfort. Chuck seemed to see the problem and pulled Dean up into his lap.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"Insurance."

"Uh…"

Chuck leaned down and was kissing him again. Dean didn't remember wanting this, but held onto him, found his numb fingers pulling at his clothes, the suit jacket, the shirt. His body ached, and he couldn't quite remember why.

There was a hand reaching into his pajama bottoms, and it wasn't cold like everything else there. It was warm, and knew what it was doing. Dean went limp in Chuck's lap, growling, head tilting back. Sharp light shot into his eyes when he did that, a prior injury telling him to take it easy.

Oh.

Oh!

God.

God was…

Dean screamed, and shoved himself away, and his voice rose to a higher pitch at the tight grip that Chuck had on his cock. Surely he'd bruise from how he'd pulled out of that.

He was tugging his pants up, on hands and knees, crawling back. Saliva built up in his mouth, head throbbing. Blood trickled down over his toes.

"No. No, no, no."

"Dean, come on."

"Go fuck someone else."

Chuck raised his eyebrows, did a slight shrug, and rose, wiping his hands off.

"Fine. Sam, then."

Dean reached out a hand, grasping onto his shoe.

"No! No!"

God kicked him in the face, bloodying his lip, the hot, metallic liquid spurting into his mouth. It dribbled past his lips, and he spat it out, even as he fell down to the rough gray rock, grazing his elbows.

"Not him," Dean panted. "Not him. Please."

He said it while he clutched at the waistband of his pants, desperately wanting to keep them on.

"Then who? Cas?"

"N-n— No."

"Then you. Besides, you're my favorite at the moment. You pushed Cas away, hurt him, really brought out a great story. And Sam shot me, so I don't know when I'll forgive him for that."

Chuck knelt down, grasping Dean's face in one hand, the other running through his hair, before traveling lower, starting to tug his bathrobe off his shoulders. Dean wasn't sure if he was crying or if his eyes were watering from the wind, but Chuck was blurry, and there was wet on his cheeks.

"So this is for a story?" he forced out, blood spewing onto his bottom lip. The red liquid quickly slid down to his chin, out the corners of his mouth.

"Isn't it all for a story?"

God brought his mouth near Dean's, if only a tad lower, lips parted, and he brought his bottom one to the blood. His eyes slid closed.

He murmured, lips moving against his skin, "Tragedy must have its part. 'Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all.'"

Suddenly the slowness, the softness of the moment left, the peaceful contemplation of tragedy that might have settled over them gone. God had shoved his hand out at Dean, placing his palm against his chest, fingers spread, and he'd been thrown onto his back, numbing pressure making itself known to him as the rock cracked beneath him.

Chuck straddled him.

Dean tried putting his arms up, wriggling his hips, doing anything to get him away, get him off, but he was down over him now, and overbearing. Dean's arms were pressed to the side, wrists pinned down on either side of his head. The legs against his were slimmer than his, but they sat against him like iron.

"You're-you're a short guy," Dean started blabbing. "You sure we can make this work? What are you, five-seven? Five-eight? Not sure there's uh, a lot we could do, so why don't we uh, don't and say we did, or you could say we did, or you could write it down in your creepy diary or something, and you could zap me back home? Huh? And we could get back the brother-killing-brother thing?"

His voice was a rough whine on the last question, his sweat chilling on him from being in such a high place, and wow, if he looked down, that was really Chuck's crotch right there.

Chuck was ignoring him from his spot up above, smiling, rolling his shoulders.

"Ungh, I love when they fear me."

"Like, who's topping here?" he went on, voice rough, grating, almost squeaking in places. "Me, you, some guy you didn't tell me about that you can go get and just leave me here, or you know, just leave me out of it, 'cause that'd be great too, and—"

Chuck ground down against him, cutting Dean off as he tossed his head back and growled, the shocking sensation of hard flesh having his stomach flip, and sending hot stabs down into his pelvis.

"You talk too much, Dean."

"Yeah, wonder why that is," he grumbled.

Just pretend it's not God, he told himself.

Yeah, like that'll be easy, he responded.

He closed his eyes, hating himself as he hardened in his pants, as he groaned, and started pressing up into him. He felt light-headed, and desire twined down to his toes, up through his torso, till it filled his throat, and he opened his mouth and was panting, head tilted back.

"There, that's how I made you, the guy who likes sex, who loves it."

"Fuck you," he murmured, not sure how much genuine emotion was behind it.

Maybe he was right.

This was God. And Dean was hard.

That was the truth. Maybe there wasn't anything else to it.

But still he cringed away, and snarled at him when he started sucking at his neck.

Was the fight even real?

Was he fighting because it was an option laid before him, and God had given him the option?

The other option was not fighting.

Even now he could feel his mind, even his body, trying to freeze, go limp, to turn compliant.

He could do it.

Pretend it was just sex.

It'd been awhile. Not a lot of guys came knocking when you were road-tripping with three other dudes, and Cas hadn't been putting out. How could he? Angels probably didn't understand sex out of anger, and anger was all there'd been for weeks.

Sex.

Yeah, he could do that.

Maybe.

But the fighting thing. He could do that too.

Oh hell, he could do that.

Dean screamed at Chuck, fear spewing from his mouth, spittle and blood getting on his face, and he raised his head, getting him in the forehead. It hurt him, disoriented him a bit, and it certainly seemed to startle Chuck, but it wasn't enough to get him off of him. Instead his face contorted into one of fury, and he got up on one foot, and forced Dean onto his stomach, not caring if skin got scraped off along the way.

Dean was aching and stinging, didn't even know where he was bleeding from now, and his arms were forced behind his back, left shoulder popping and dislocating as his bathrobe was roughly yanked off without care. His head was forced down, injured jaw sending jolts of white agony up through his skull, and he got a mouthful of gravel that came out bloody.

It was all so fast and sudden that he couldn't scream, could only gasp, and try to breathe through it all.

An earthy, metallic scent rose up through his sinuses, catching there, till it strengthened, taking on the essence of wet mud. It was almost rotten, had him gagging.

Hands gripped his shirt, ripping the back of it, and he clawed at the rock, trying to drag himself away, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back down. Blood ran from his fingers, his damaged nails.

Naked. Why did God want him to naked? If Dean had to guess it was some damn thing about his body being perfect because it'd been made in God's damned image.

Yeah, had to be that.

The ruins of his shirt were pulled out from under him, and his pants were pulled down. No amount of kicking and squirming could get him away, and fuck, the rock really hurt against his cock, especially all sensitized as it was. His body was still ready for sex, even fighting like he was.

His blood was pumping, adrenaline high, heart beating so fiercely it almost hurt. And oh, he was burning inside. Maybe outside too.

He growled as he was forced onto his hands and knees, more skin getting grazed, and he was forced back against a body, against Chuck's body.

But Dean didn't give in then. This was the path he'd chosen out of the options he'd been given in God's game, or story, and this was what he was going with. So he continued struggling, but he felt his body relaxing, the writhing turning to grinding, as one hand went from his hip to his cock, stroking it eagerly.

Dean moaned, even as he thought of a way to get his legs around him, twist, find a way to punch him…

He didn't even consider that none of this would work.

He couldn't.

A zipper was being undone, the sound surely sharp enough to make his ears bleed, and he flinched.

Next thing he knew something hard and fleshy was against him, a body part that he was familiar with, just not from this person in particular.

It sent shivers through his body that no longer felt the cold, and a spear through his stomach.

"What, don't believe in prepwork?" he snarled over his shoulder at the entity that was intent on violating him.

Or perhaps it wasn't a violation.

A violation was the action of not respecting someone's rights, or boundaries. But God had made his body, had made those rights, and boundaries.

Maybe they'd never been Dean's.

They were God's.

He choked back a heave, got a pat on the back for it, and then leaned forward, squeezing his eyes shut and wincing as he felt Chuck trying to push into him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! It hurt, it hurt!

"You've done it dry before," Chuck tried to console.

Great, so he did know all about his sex life. No wonder the perv had written him full-frontal. Probably got off to giving him a nice, big packa—

Oh, wow! He was going for it again, and the hand on his cock wasn't convincing him to relax. It just had him thrusting into it, hips jolting away. But then Chuck was squeezing the base of his cock much too hard, and he found he didn't want to move. He shifted his weight on his knees, whining, feeling the head of him pushing, pushing…

It burned, a sharp pain stabbed inside of him, then more.

Chuck didn't have the courtesy to tell him what progress he was making, the son of a bitch.

A guttural moan was leaving him, the hand on his cock pumping again, hard and fast, trying to get him to loosen up, calm down. Precum spurted from the tip, coating the head, and Dean felt pressure beneath his balls, maybe a bit of loosening in his muscles. He grit his teeth, crying out.

No, no, no, no, no!

Oh fuck, it was really hurting now.

"Stop! No, stop!" he cried. "Just stop! No, no, no!"

He wouldn't say please, he wouldn't say please, he wouldn't—

A stab traveled far into his gut that had his right leg twitching, and he found himself shrieking please, jaw aching as he did so.

The movement stopped, and Dean was shaking, throbbing inside, murmuring things he wasn't sure made sense. Chuck definitely wasn't in there all the way though.

"Dean, you're too tight."

"Then get the fuck out!"

"No," God commanded. He leaned forward, lips trailing over his back lightly, the hand on his cock being gentle, fingers even trailing down to his filled balls. "Relax," he soothed. "Relax."

"You're God, dipshit. Make me relax. Or what, don't know how to please a man? Bet you don't, you son of a bitch. Bet your dick's been dry till now you fucking, good for nothing, shit-for-brains, pervy, assha— oh!"

Dean nearly collapsed from pleasure.

It flooded his entire system, taking over his senses, canceling everything else out. Pain didn't exist, not even his vision, or sense of smell, or taste. He forgot where he was, hardly registered the ground beneath him. There was just the ecstasy bursting through him, and it didn't stop. His whole body felt swollen and filled with it, absolutely hot and boiling, and on the verge of pain, or possibly even death. There was nothing else until there were hands, touching, bringing more pleasure, making his nerves throb and sing, gush over with perfect want and satisfaction. And then he was filled. Oh god, yes, he was filled, and there was pressure, beautiful, beautiful pressure against a bundle of bliss inside of him, striking light through the blinding sensations that wound through every cell. It was a stab, a perfect stab. Too much in just the right way.

Dean's face was wet with tears when the pleasure faded, when the world came back to him in drab, meaningless colors, when his body ached and screamed at him, told him of his hurts and dull humanity. And more tears came as skin slapped against his ass, but he pushed back, holding his ground in his own way.

God wanted a soldier, he was going to get a soldier.

Mmph, his body wanted to tense, to get this thing out, all the hard, throbbing, twitching flesh. And it was flesh. Flesh made by God, to hold God. It was God. And it was in Dean.

Oh fuck, it hurt. He was slamming against his prostate, not taking care for how he was making him burn inside, or the million stabbing pains one thrust brought. And the soreness, oh wow, he could feel himself swelling and bruising in there.

It was wet, squelching. Skin was surely torn.

But Dean was as hard as ever, grunting, cock twitching at the way it was getting pumped.

God, yes, just a bit more, a bit more…

Who could say how long the entity who made the universe lasted?

Probably as long as he wanted to.

Dean hoped that wasn't going to be forever. His body couldn't handle it. He was still bleeding, skin was still getting torn from him from the merciless rock, the thrusts much too hard, and exhaustion wore on him. His head was pounding, eyes watering and stinging, aching from the light. And each knock of his teeth together had agony bursting through his face.

Dean let out a fierce growl when he came, not wanting to let Chuck hear anything else, not a cry, a scream, or a whimper or whine. He wouldn't let it happen. Maybe Chuck didn't want to hear any different. Maybe he wanted to know deep down that Dean was a soldier, a man, wanted that hypermasculine role he'd had Dean start out with.

Through his exhausted haze, Dean was shocked when Chuck pulled out of him and let him collapse to the ground and roll onto his side. He was panting, sweating, even as the air cooled it on him, making him shiver.

Dean wanted to ask if he was done with him, but Chuck was still hard. Instead, he just grabbed Dean's thighs, brought them together, and pleasured himself that way.

Dean had put up a fight, trying to pull his legs back, but he was slapped in the face, had his thigh pinched till he whined and would surely bruise.

"Stop it," Chuck reprimanded.

Dean spat in his face.

"Had enough of my ass?" he question sourly.

"Readers get bored of regular sex," he commented. "You know, you finishing, then me giving you post-orgasm torture and finishing in you. Sure it's been done a dozen times in all the kink fanfics of you."

"Rape. Some kink."

Chuck showed his fury by spitting at Dean.

He twisted his head and coughed up sour bile when it landed on his chest, even getting some of his nipple.

So this was how it was going now. Chuck used his thighs. What an idea.

Dean wanted to kill him.

Kill God.

Yeah, that'd be nice.

But he was too tired to do anything about it, and his ass hurt six ways from Sunday, and to the moon and back, and anything other insane exaggeration he could think of.

Chuck came. His cum was hot when it landed on Dean's reddenned, spent cock, and Dean felt bile rising in his throat again. He kicked himself away so he could roll onto his stomach, at least raise himself up on his elbows so he could sick up in peace.

God was putting himself away it seemed while Dean threw up.

Dean told himself he'd been going to do that anyway thanks to the hangover.

When he faced him again, wiping his mouth on his arm that was now becoming numb with cold again since his body wasn't doing any rigorous activity, he glared, but he couldn't make himself say anything.

God took a step forward and Dean flinched back.

"Back on the shelf, Dean?"

He curled his lip in a snarl, then bared his teeth at him.

"How was the story, you think? Readers gonna like it?"

Chuck's readers could go fuck themselves.

"Come on, pointers."

"Next time you want readers, stay out of my life."

Chuck leaned in. "Next time I want readers, I'll just kill you." He patted his cheek, smiled, and then Dean was back at the bunker, on his bed. Chuck was gone.

Sam was on Dean's couch, stunned, but racing to him once he saw Dean was there. All Dean could do was clutch the sheets to himself, bringing his knees up, not saying a word.

No matter how many questions Sam asked, no matter what he did to help him, to clean him up, to treat his wounds, to warm him, to help his dehydration he'd begun feeling, to get him to talk, Dean said nothing.

What could he say?

It was all for a stupid story.

Chuck's story.

And Dean didn't have his next line written.


End file.
